"meantime" poems
I can lay
right next to you
and never touch you
I can see you smile
from across the room
without kissing you
I can watch you
leave the room
and resist hugging you goodbye
But sometimes
when I'm next to you
you have to ask me to move away
Because for a few minutes
I let fantasy get confused with reality
and I lean against you during a movie
And it's so warm
your arm and mine, touching
for that minute I'm at peace
But when you ask
of course I make room
Because I don't want you to feel uncomfortable
And if you weren't my friend
I would probably try it
just once, to know what it would be like to kiss you
But ideally,
I'll get over this
and when I am, we'll still be friends
So in the meantime
I try not to think about kissing you
and I only hug you when I have reason to
What I'm saying is
I will do what I can
to keep myself sane and our friendship intact
But just know
that with every look I give
I wish I could give so much more.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
i’ll say it again. this is the only
time i write with music. listen now and i’ll spin
the wheel again, an ocean is no excuse for a tipped balance. trace
origins back to சாதம், வீடு, பறவை. tip-toe to reach the top half of the
stove, where the stories and the music are, but hand on head, not quite there yet. in the meantime, i hope my hands become as fire-glazed as yours one day. listen now and i’ll tell you how to live a life in compromises. here, come help me with my சாறி, no, i don’t have flowers for your hair, because there are are two different languages
in this house. inhale savory vowels and lives rolled into the sun, exhale தயிர் without salt, a theoretical childhood, heart with
half the guilt. listen now for something i told my அம்மா:
travel eight thousand miles by foot and open one eye,
make a phone call and taste dew- glittering நெய்
தோசை. listen now for a final time. when
there are not enough unfurled petals of
this world, look up and find the
பௌர்ணமி in a hidden
corner of your heart.
blink once to skip time
zones, twice to remember the
promise of a thousand locusts and monsoon rain.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
It seems I was
born with a flawed mind
and an inferior anatomy.
I was raised to be a daisy
soft and dainty
abandoned in the polar air to be
protected
by the starving dirt that
pins us to the earth.
Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer
…every once and a while.
In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked
and my stem grows grungy.
I watch horrified.
Flowers being ripped from their roots
purely out of admiration for their beauty
sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales.
I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil
that will never be stable.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
I'm scared to see
What lies beyond these doors
The gate to my future
Whats in store?
I'm scared to let go
Of my high school freedom
Graduation is near
Times passing like the seasons
I'm scared to know
What reality has to offer
I'm not at all prepared
I'm like a lamb to the slaughter
I'm scared to find out
Which of my friends will stay
Who are the real ones
And which ones will fade
I'm scared to hold
All the power of my life
Making such a crucial choice
Cutting through me like a knife
I dont want to be scared
Of what I have now
I want to enjoy life
I'm not exactly sure how
I'll think about my future
And all that is to come
When reality comes knocking
By then I'll be done
Change will happen
Slowly throughout time
I'll take it as it comes
Dont stress in the meantime
I won't be scared.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Hello, I'm
Very pleased to meet you, it's just
you can't see it underneath my chronic "resting ***** face."
I've actually been told that it's more of a chronic "sad and brooding" face, but, I'll take what I can get.
Some things you need to know before dating me are
I do like long walks to the bottom of the ocean,
and I spent most of my childhood under bridges. I know what it's like to walk with two left feet - or no feet at all, so to speak.
I smoke cigarettes when I'm sad because I like the feel and when I was a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to be Morrissey when I grew up.
Plot twist:
I grew up, and I'm still not Morrissey.
But I can write you a mean love poem, and I'll do it on many occasions, even if I'm just meeting you. There won't be a second when I'm not falling in love with something, and, to be honest, I don't know how to live with (or without) that feeling.
I guess I'll just fall in love with trees, then
or something inanimate
to break my fall.
But in the meantime, some things you need to know before dating me are
That there are often days where I can't even stand to face the wind that greets me
and I flinch at every turn when I hear noise.
I'm more timid than I look and yet
I find comfort
in dark things, a fake sense of the macabre
and a firm grasp of words, see
I could make anyone want to want me
I just don't care to
because people are ******* terrifying.
And, in the end
when my star burns out,
all that is left in the center
will be old words
and photographs.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
you told me
to write down my feelings
and share them with you
when you wake up,
but drawing out these emotions
isn’t easy because
they’re pale and indefinite
i cannot distinguish
a path to take,
whether it’s winding
or cobblestoned,
or so overgrown with trees
that i cannot see the sky
so maybe in the meantime
i’ll sit in my room
and fold paper cranes
on rainy days
till a map that illustrates
how to carry on
makes its way
into my muddled hands
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
/
One day,
With the absence of my mind
Ran to the river
What might cause for getting the creeps
I called out to her tune,
Would draw the magnitude
Which made,
A stream of love
Reserved my chest with a colorful sailboat
I was moving
Along the unknown way with playing flute
Then came one of the exotic path
The distant villages,
Then along the earthy way
The meantime
When I became tired,
Have to rest
In the shade of green
Dropped the melody of birds
Plucked the flowers,
Hoped the song with flute
Then suddenly
I came to your home yard
You heard my mystic songs
And to be loved,
Beloved--
Was filled with songs of bird
Sky, Air, Meadows
That earthy way
Stars stood up
Filled the night sky
The river grew with Silver Moon
Yet Fill with the moonlight
Follow the river down
To My old boat along the moonlit
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Perpetual occupation. Thoughts o’Disgust.
A path into oblivion. Who can we trust?
5% of the world population.
20%, prison population.
More thoughts. More of disgust. Despair. Hope? Less.
And less! Each day I think I forget. Its there.
Orange TV show personality.
As the leader of the free world?! What kind
of world is that? What am I supposed t’think?
Oh right. Because he’s free to tweet trash, garbage,
putridness, calling everyone out other than himself,
calling people dogs? That’s freedom. No thank you.
In the meantime, go fix your ******* self!
Before you try to fix everyone else.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
I cherish my freedom
Hard earned though it was
Through the abolitionist railway
And those who supported the cause
An African slave,
though free upon birth
I was sold as a slave
And was now bound to the earth
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Late in the dark
I heard of the routes
To the new land of freedom
I was resolute
I would run for my life
Leave my family behind
I would run for the caves
And the new life I'd find
Bound to plantation
I was just something to trade
I would run for my freedom
The decision was made
From South Carolina
I'd head to the coast
I'd run for my freedom
I'd then be a ghost
Follow the signs
That was all that I heard
They know you are coming
Just remember the word
Stray from the darkness
A dead slave you will be
With the last thought you'll have
That you'll never die free
Boats on the seacoast
Up to Salem they sail
Look for the sign
And remember the trail
Make for the caves
They'll find you where
The water is highest
They'll come get you there
From there up to Salem
And one more step to go
Stick with the railroad
The way that they know
Make way when the moon
Is down low in the sky
If you're found in the meantime
It's a fact you will die
Freedom is costly
But, it is within reach
Make for the caves
At the north end of the beach
From New England go on
to the north or the west
Both spell out freedom
The end of your quest
Don't look over your shoulder
just follow the signs
They know you are coming
stay deep in the pines
Remember all those
Who have made Freeman Cave
Follow their symbols
And don't die a slave
There are people who will
Help you free from the strife
But, for now find the caves
And son, run for your life....
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Run for the caves boy
Run for the caves
Run for your freedom
Or die here a slave
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
I’m just so tired of every day. I’m so tired of the gray and the way my body begs me and begs me for just a few more hours of darkness. And I never know if it’s asking that because it feels tired, or because it’s afraid that my thoughts and monsters might drag it out passed its’ limits like it normally does. It’s such an odd thing. I’m terrified of darkness, and sometimes it’s all I crave.
One half of me begs for summer days filled with shooting clouds and soft blankets that are hard to lay on because I’m sweating. The other half wants nights filled with angry music and dark clothing. Piercings and dyed hair, shoving my mouth against a stranger with tingling finger tips from what ever my ‘friend’ had given me only minutes before. One wants a calm surreal happiness. The other wants to get revenge on the world. Exhaust her body until it is filed down to skin and bones. Big heavy bags underneath my eyes that hold nothing but the reminder that I will always be tired. Splotchy cheeks, oh that’s right, I was crying last night. It doesn’t make sense. I feel so much more strongly on one side even though the other is so much better. For me. For me for me for me. But is it what I deserve? Is it what I see myself really wanting?
Who knows. I don’t want to care about me. I want to throw myself away, and in the meantime, hold someone else. Of course I wouldn’t drag them down with me… Or maybe I would.
Maybe I don’t deserve people.
Or at least I should avoid them.
But I can’t be alone, because a lonely life is a pointless one. And if I am pointless, then I am wasted space, and I should not wave my arms around in the air anymore. My lungs should not do their regular function, and maybe, just maybe, my heart could be given to someone who would put it to much better use.
My skin feels overused and overdone.
There’s sand in the cracks of my hands and I swear I will never feel satisfied in anything that I ever do. I am not soft to the touch. I am rough. No one wants to put their hand in mine, and wear me like I am the sea. No one wishes they could spin me around and push me off, so that I would beg and plead for the right direction towards them. No one wants me to love them like I so badly want someone to love me. And I won’t have it. I will never have it. I am not meant for anyone, because I am not meant for myself.
That is the problem. It’s right there. It’s right in my own face.
I am not meant for myself.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations
that bombard every millennial these days,
the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin
until they find their way in
and search through each crevice in my brain
until they find the right residence to lay their bed
and plant the insecurities that end up
destroying my self-confidence
and gifting me with the inability to succeed
until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out
just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again.
Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore.
I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark,
a strange child who danced to my own beat,
even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding,
and there is a small piece of me that -
when a new life event of someone my age
visits my newsfeed -
wants the same, tired story for my own life...
and then I remember
I wasn’t made for this.
Sometimes
I’m not sure what I was made for anymore,
and I just keep waiting and waiting
until it’s my time to be on my own,
or catch my heart on fire,
or simply take a step forward,
and, yet, it
never
happens.
There are things I know about myself
that I will never explain,
and I shouldn’t have to.
I have a key-shaped hole in my soul
that aches to find its perfect fit,
but I’m not allowed to twist it yet,
though my fist has been ready for years,
and all I can do in the meantime
when someone asks me
why
is answer with one simple phrase
that stings each time it passes through my lips:
It’s not my time yet.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
I am a choice
We all are actually..
Even the tiniest specie
But I've always wondered though
Why are there second, third, or so?
We will feel much better if it's not like that
Every one of us would appreciate that a lot
I am a last choice living proof...
Not even second,
Always the last
In the meantime
I just hope everything would pass
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
It’s dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It’s a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
For your convenience
and mine, I am
kind and sensitive at times, just
enough to make you believe that
friends like me are
rare. That's why you can't make out when
I begin to
exploit you and it is when you begin to
notice, that I defend myself, say you exploited me,
dump you like I planned and
soon become a fake friend of someone
hapless and rare like you were, while
in the meantime you become like me;
perhaps that's why fake friends are not uncommon.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
You were born in the cold black heart of the Cold War, under the fist of
Eisenhower, under the satellite eye of Mother Russia—1960 America.
Chinese Year of the Rat. U-2 Pilot Gary Powers forgot to **** himself.
Space Race Baby looking up at stars she does not comprehend—
the world is big, the sky is bigger—Shhhhhhhhhhh: huddle under your desk in case a big, black, bomb falls down and burns you so bad you feel nothing but cold
cold cold;
huddle inside yourself in case your plane is shot down over Soviet soil
and everything turns to red, turns to blood, turns to your fingers shaking and your eyes stinging, and you think about that time when your mother told you about the Year of the Rat being associated with white,
with the Chinese color of death. You think: This is it. There is where it ends,
but this is not it; this is not the end. You will die in a hospital bed
in 49 years, so just give it some time, alright?
Khrushchev and Eisenhower can play Tug-of-War and
Vietnam can burn in the meantime.
Mother, when you were born you could not breathe. Mother,
when you died it was because you could not breathe. Mother,
when you are not here I think of Gary Powers not having time to press “Self-Destruct,” of the Year of the Rat
choking to death on
Lily of the Valley,
of learning how to talk to the 58,286 dead Vietnam War soldiers. I want to
know what it is like to look up at the sky and fear a missile strike smack in
the middle of winter. I want to know how cold the Cold War felt to you in
the Chinese Year of the Rat, and what he felt when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers
fell like
Lucifer
into the arms
of Mother Russia.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Little soul, little perpetually undressed one,
Do now as I bid you, climb
The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree;
Wait at the top, attentive, like
A sentry or look-out. He will be home soon;
It behooves you to be
Generous. You have not been completely
Perfect either; with your troublesome body
You have done things you shouldn't
Discuss in poems. Therefore
Call out to him over the open water, over the bright
Water
With your dark song, with your grasping,
Unnatural song--passionate,
Like Maria Callas. Who
Wouldn't want you? Whose most demonic appetite
Could you possibly fail to answer? Soon
He will return from wherever he goes in the
Meantime,
Suntanned from his time away, wanting
His grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him,
You must shake the boughs of the tree
To get his attention,
But carefully, carefully, lest
His beautiful face be marred
By too many falling needles.
3.7k
my personality only comes in one flavor
and I'm not here
to custom-make an order or
wait on the haters
hand and foot
it shouldn't matter if my poetry is bland and tasteless
if my story isn't interesting enough to be told
perhaps I am a lone comic book sitting on a shelf in Green River, Utah
I may be useful to somebody
Someday
(but in the meantime I'll learn to love myself)
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I only love her,
She loves me too.
We do meet in future,
The date is unpredictable.
But in the meantime,
I age everyday.
She does too,
But slowly.
She stays sweet,
Turns much sweeter.
Much more than sugar,
She's my **** sugar babe!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
My philosophy as I drive down the road
I don't feel bad if I don't feel it under my tires
That means I step on spiders
Swat mosquitoes
Take antibiotics
Life is not created equal
When we live atop an ever shifting puzzle
Where the value of life
Is dependent on the ability to take life
A virus's sole purpose is to attack host cells and reproduce
So is our's
I guess we'll see who kills who first
Trees get larger trunks
Animals get larger teeth
Humans get larger guns
And as those guns hold our hopes
Humanity holds the hopes for all organisms
To one day transcend competition
But in the meantime
I'm worried about the cracks in the road
Because I can feel them shifting under my tires
But there is cement on my wheels
And on the vehicles around me
We pave this road we travel on
Until the cement runs dry
And our vessel dies
For newer improved cars to continue
On the freeway to transcendence
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
Okay... see... I really like this girl and I've liked her for a while. She's a silly type of girl that would go the extra mile for any guy that might want *** from the forest to the tile. They might seem as sweet as can be, but they turn out to be vile. There's this one stupid guy who's only nice perk was his smile. He got her pregnant last year and she's about to have a child. I guess this was bound to happen, cause she's that type of wild that would get married at 18 and then immediately file for divorce in the courts, of course this would happen. While I'm studying the art of pickup, she gets sitting on his lap and then he might decide to stick his **** up and start clappin, cause I was never able to man up and I was too scared to tap in. I guess my major hiccup was my constant state of rapping. Where has poetry ever even gotten me. Just a hobby while I'm stuck in this secluded monotony. I just hope one day I can say someone spotted me. In the meantime I'll be a lonely poet in the club of 'Forgotten Thee'.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
*Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .*
1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony
No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
iron out brittle energy
attempt to fortify links
..
2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay
I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching
3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes
I challenge you to visualise our melting:
perched on fate’s right shoulder
re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
summoned by that primordial, blue light
..
*the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)
To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .*
S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
I sleep in pitch black rooms and wait
for candles to light themselves
Thoughts the same shade of dark.
Counting sheep as they hop into slaughter houses of gluttonous, avaricious men who trade their humanity for pocket change.
While satans minions work with circumspectivness to reap what their slave-like bourgeois have sewn living with a motto of
Yesterday is history tomorrow is a mystery
In the Meantime fribble prodigal sons of the privileged ponder their inheritance
While the daughter of a currier burns her fathers letters because something's are best left unknown
and the candles remain unlit.
But beauteous animals still roam free in the wild,
little kids still smile.
There's hope in the heart of each child.
Sitting in seclusion and coming to Ambiguous conclusions is always productive
So When did the key to success become failure?
when wasn't it?
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Pave me a path to the moon
I'll walk the whole way
Encouraged
By the silver dust craters
And white light
It looks to be a gentle place
A place to go to close your eyes
And exhale.
A place to go
To have your face touched
And heart filled
On the moon
I will be peaceful
I will revel in the
Weightlessness of it all
And store that feeling in my heart
Remembering it in moments
When I am feeling
Crushed by this heavy earth
And in the meantime
While my path is being paved
I'll keep my moon dream alive
By late night star gazing
And keeping
Silver dust in my pocket
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC